


Night Shift

by Notebooknote



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, Grocery Store, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-05
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-07 13:17:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1900347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Notebooknote/pseuds/Notebooknote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>24 hour grocery stores are good when you prefer minimal contact with idiots and the general population.</p><p>24 hour grocery stores are also good when the person who works the shift is an idiot who can't be seen by the general population.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Night Shift

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy this shit. I'm a dumb ass and I do not mean to offend anyone.

_Friday 11:29 pm_

He stands with a basket. Inside, there were three packages of mini cupcakes, a litre of ice cream, two tomatoes, a pie, four pounds of ground beef, and shredded cheese of the jalapeno TexMex variety. He waits behind a small man – smaller still compared to him – and a woman with earbuds in. _Stupid_ , he thinks, _I could pull out a gun and shoot her and she wouldn’t realize._

And then he takes it all back, wishing he could be oblivious and surrounded by music, instead of walking closer to the cashier who seems to be speaking with three separate mouths with the amount of words pouring out of his face.

It’s like a dam had broken and sewage flooded out, gushing over the late night shoppers and drenching them in absurd and useless commentary as he tries to unload his basket. No wonder he’s put on night shift.

And then he puts the divider on the conveyor belt for the man behind him. He’s close enough and aware enough to be paying attention to whatever shit he’s spewing and – 

_Holy fuck. He makes sense._ Barely, but the point stands.

He moves up in line. He watches to make sure the plebeian doesn’t double scan. He puts his cloth bags on the counter and starts packing as soon as the stuff hits the other side. And then he hears the sarcasm.

“Need help?”

_Thursday, 1:50 am, two weeks later_

He’s back. Being up all night and burning that many calories and at home, he eats through his fridge in a way he can’t when he’s up all night and burning that many calories and somewhere else. He stands with a similarly packed basket, except this time he has milk and a carton of brown eggs.

The store is empty, which is a bonus for his sleeping-pattern-pantry-ravaging late night trips.

There’s singing this time and it isn’t very good. It is, however, slightly entertaining and so fucking infectious, he is tempted to even just mouth the words out. The music is a little bit louder than it would be in the day. The song changes and it’s a song he likes and a song he sings to himself as he fixes his bike, if he’s being honest. The cashier knows the song too.

He starts to hum.

Next week, he sings.

_Tuesday, 1:37 am_

When he looks up from plopping the singular box of pop tarts on the belt, no one else around except the night security and some teenagers checking out in the express 12 or less – _or fewer_ ¬ he sees a bony hand pop a pill. He stares for a second.

The owner of said bony hand stops his latest monologue and says

“36 hours up, homes. Fourth year’s a dick in the ass and not in the good way.”

They talk about his courses. They talk about a lot of things, now that he’s stopped the stick in his ass from shutting his mouth. He actually kind of likes this fucking gremlin and whatever it is they’ve got growing. They talk about a lot of shit he didn’t think he’d know. One thing, though. 

His theses is fucking backwards, but in the good way.

_Thursday, 3:01 am_

“I didn’t think I’d see you.”

“Shut up, Ray. The ice cream is melting.”

“I’m off in another two if you’d ride your dildo on wheels back again.”

“Do you talk like this around other people?”

“Only sickos come in during my shifts. So yes, yes I do.”

“Are you calling me a sicko, Ray?”

“Bradley, you’re my favourite kind of sicko.”

**Author's Note:**

> I based a lot of this on my own experiences of shopping at ass-up o'clock. Except MetroBoy (my regular cashkid) is Brad and I am Ray, who sings "You're the Inspiration" by Chicago while avoiding eye contact and giggling like a fucking children's doll when asked if I'd like help packing bags I've finished packing...
> 
> If I don't marry this boy, my life has been for naught.
> 
> Also, yeah. Listen to the song and you'll understand why life throws curve balls aimed at your head, but hitting your junk.


End file.
